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“Not at all.”
“I am mortified to have caused you to fall. I shall carry you the rest of the way.” He put an arm around her back and tried to scoop his other arm under her knees to pick her up. Using her fists, she pummeled him on the shoulder.
“Stop! Put me down. I can do it myself. I am not an infant.” Mercifully he dropped his arms and backed off.
“Well at least let me help you up and take you inside.” Scowling, she held out one hand using the other to steady her swords while McCrae hauled her to her feet in one swift motion. Trying not to wince she took stock of her body for damage. A bruised behind, most definitely, and her back felt stiff, but everything else seemed to be in working order. Albeit gingerly, she found she could walk on her own two feet. McCrae insisted she hold on to his arm and given what had just occurred she did not fight his offer of help. He carried her basket until they reached the fencing academy door. To her relief the door was locked so her father and grandmother must still be out.
“I shall stay with you until someone is home.”
“I do not think that would be proper. You need to leave.” The infuriating man completely ignored her, propping the door open once she had unlocked it and following her inside. “I must insist that you leave. I have my reputation to consider.”
“The lass who visits brothels and fights with men in the street is concerned about her reputation?”
“I am going to change out of these,” she said turning her back on him and walking away, “and when I return, I expect you shall be gone.”
McCrae called after her yanking her to a stop with the force of his voice just as if he had pulled her by the hair. “Wait! I beg you. If you do not wish to discuss your reputation, then perhaps we can discuss something far more interesting...such as your undergarments?”
Wheeling around in a fury, she spat out a terse response. The annoyance she had kept a lid on finally boiled over. “What is it you want from me?”
The twinkle in his eye was so infuriating. He was playing her like a tomcat with a mouse. “Nothing,” he said, watching her intently, “for now.”
In the pause between dangling and devouring, he did not take his eyes off her face. “I shall leave, if that is your wish. I shall also replace the dress since it is no doubt ruined. I trust the swords survived.”
It was a good thing he was well out of range, or she would have been tempted to test the integrity of her swords upon his person. Reading her mood, if not her thoughts, he stepped backwards and out the door leaving her to mull over their last exchange. Nothing for now, he had said, which implied at some later time he would be wanting something from her, of that she was sure.
With an aching body and a heart filled with trepidation, she put away the rapiers, her eyes doing a swift scan of the room. Without the chink and clang of weapons, the jostling and shouting of an academy full of swordsmen, the room seemed cavernous and empty. Once it had been the refectory for the Whitefriars monastery, made of the same thick stone and clay brick as the rest of the buildings. The cloisters outside had been enclosed to form storage areas and their sleeping quarters while the kitchen at the back, being the original kitchen for the monastery, was a large and generous space. The flagstone floor in the training room had been laid over with timber; a wood floor making a more level and forgiving piste. Wooden benches lined the walls for fencers to rest upon, store their belongings, or watch other fencers’ bouts. It was always strange to see the space so vacant, hemmed in with memories and silence, but even when it was closed, she still had work to do. She glanced up at the large painted sign that hung on the wall, clearly visible on entering as a reminder to all of the house rules.
NO SUSPECT PERSONS. (MURDERERS THIEVES DRUNKARDS QUARRELERS).
She had a good mind to add SCOTSMEN to the list.
With McCrae finally gone she was left alone in the familiar surround of leathers, bolsters and weapons. Or was she alone? There was a muffled thud, thump, coming from their living quarters that sent a twang of alertness down her spine. Swapping the practice rapiers for a broad sword and buckler shield, she slipped out of her shoes and padded silently to investigate, the thumping noise getting louder as she approached. She stuck her head cautiously around the door and could see nothing to alarm her until she crept forward and rounded the central trestle table.
“Father!” she gasped, dropping the shield on the floor with a clang.
His body jerked violently. His boots, hands, legs and arms, all were thrashing about, beating at the flagstones, crashing against the table legs, kicking the door and the door frame, any object that came into his path. His whole body spasmed and flailed like he was trying to fight some demon off. His eyes were staring and unresponsive, but he was moving so he must be alive. She pushed down the choking fear that lodged in her throat and, dodging his flailing limbs, crouched beside him.
“Father, wake up. Speak to me. What is wrong?” He gave no sign that he heard her but continued with his thumping and thrashing. Somehow, she must make it stop. She tried to anchor his legs by kneeling on them and pinning his arms down with her hands, but all that did was make his body buck against her and his head slam repeatedly against the hard stone floor. He had such strength she could not quell the wild jerking any more than she could restrain a wild horse. If he did not stop, he would surely injure himself terribly. It would be a miracle if he did not already have broken bones. How long had he been lying here in such a state? What could cause such unrelenting spasms? Certain poisons could make a person writhe in agony and thrash about. He was frothing at the mouth, but there was no untoward smell apart from a stench of urine. Oh dear God. What should she do?
If she could not calm the spasms, perhaps she could limit the damage and soften the impact? She went in search of cloths and rushes, anything to pad and buttress him, dumping the pile on the floor beside her while she edged in closer. Rolling him a little to one side she was able to slide a thick bed cover underneath his hips and shoulders, before rolling him the other way and pulling the bed cover all the way through, ducking his fists and kicking feet in the process. While she still had him on his side, she bent up one of his knees, packing more bedding behind his back to anchor him in place. Lifting his head she positioned a rolled-up cloak as a pillow. To her horror when she pulled her hand out from under his head it was sticky and covered with blood, confirming her conclusion that limiting the bodily harm was the best thing she could do.
Whether it was the cushioning, or positioning, or merely the natural progression of the storm of spasms, the worst of the flailing began to slow down. Instead of wild jerky convulsions his body settled into a fairly constant pattern of twitching, a type of spasm nonetheless, but without such violent force. What to do now? Oh please, Grandma, come home swiftly. This was too much to deal with on her own. She must think. What helped with spasm? Rue, the herb of grace? Valerian? Lavender? Grandma used rue to help with the cramping pain women suffered with their courses. Valerian and lavender, she used to calm a distressed woman during childbirth. Grandma had her basket of supplies with her, but her little storeroom in the courtyard was filled with remedies and concoctions.
Satisfied her father was as comfortable as she could make him, Lucinda went to the storeroom and fumbled with the latch, illuminating the shelves with a taper she had lit on the kitchen coals. There was no valerian on the neatly stacked shelves but there was a tincture of rue. She could dropper it onto his tongue perhaps, but could he swallow it in his current state? Lavender oil might be better. It could be rubbed into the skin. Snatching both remedies off the shelf she sped back to the kitchen, dabbed her fingers with the lavender oil and began rubbing it into his temples. After a short while the twitching subsided. Father’s breathing was still rapid but less jagged than before. He still gave no sign of recognition in his eyes, nor did he respond to her voice. He was suspended in a stupor that gave the appearance of someone asleep, though you could hardly call this sleep.
The throes were more akin to a nightmare.
She sat perched with her knees hugged close to her chest on a rush mat she had dragged from the bedroom, all the while making small circles over his temple. It seemed to have a calming effect. Even if it did not help Father, it helped to slow her own runaway pulse and gave her something to do other than pace the room and fret. Slow breaths, slow breaths she reminded herself just as Grandma would to soothe a woman through the worst of her birthing pangs. Once outside a shop in the Royal Exchange she had seen a woman in the grip of similar uncontrollable convulsions. With her legs tied together and her arms strapped to her sides the Bailiffs carted her off to Bedlam. That could not, would not happen to Father. He would recover and return to his normal self. He had survived war, lost an arm and lived through the plague. This strange storm of wild spasms could not bring him down.
Not knowing what else to do she started to sing as if both their lives depended on it. Her voice was wobbly at first, but gradually grew stronger and clearer, the sound of her own voice both a comfort and distraction. The hum and vibration filled her chest and her head, leaving no space for fear or panic while she watched over Father’s twitching body and waited for Grandma Jones to come home.
“You did well,” Grandma Jones said as she laid a fresh poultice of rue on Father’s chest. I shall give him a brew of valerian tea when he comes around.”
Tears of relief pooled in Lucinda’s eyes. She blinked them away and steeled herself to ask. “Will he recover?”
“There is no reason not to expect him to.”
“It was terrifying. What do you think could be wrong?”
